Chapter 16: The Game Continues
The silence in the car from the airport had been a physical thing, a third passenger breathing between them in the dark. Ellie had stared out the window at the familiar, sleeping suburbs, her profile cut from stone. Andrew had gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles pale, the questions clotting his tongue. "How was the conference?" he'd finally asked, the words too loud. Ellie had turned her head slowly, a faint smile touching her lips. The streetlights had flashed across her face, highlighting the new hollows under her cheekbones. "Productive," she said, and then looked away again.
That single word had hung in the air for the rest of the drive, for the unloading of luggage, for the silent ascent to their bedroom. It had buzzed in the walls all night as they lay stiffly, backs not quite touching.
Now, morning light cut through the gaps in the blinds, painting gold stripes on the rumpled duvet. Andrew was already awake, propped on one elbow, watching her. She moved around the room with a new, efficient grace, the ghost of Dubai still clinging to her pores. She opened the wardrobe and stood there for a moment, contemplative. She pulled out a sweater, thin and white, folded in tissue paper. She shook it out, and the fine cashmere floated like a vapor before settling in her hands. She pulled it over her head, and the material sighed against her skin. It was obscenely soft, obscenely thin. In the grey dawn light, it became a second skin, translucent. The massive, silicone-augmented swells of her breasts were utterly visible, the dark areolas shadowy continents, the nipples already tightening into pronounced peaks against the delicate knit.
Andrew’s breath hitched. His cock, half-hard from sleep, thickened fully under the sheets. Ellie caught his stare in the vanity mirror. She didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, she bent at the waist, her back a perfect, straight line, to pick up a hairbrush from the dresser. The hem of her simple black skirt rode up her thighs.
She was wearing nothing underneath.
The smooth, pale curves of her ass were fully exposed to him, the intimate cleft shadowed and vulnerable. She held the pose for a beat too long, the motion too deliberate to be accidental. Then she straightened, the skirt falling back into place as if by afterthought. She began to brush her short, practical hair, her eyes meeting his in the mirror’s reflection.
“You’re not wearing any…” His voice was gravel.
“Any what?” she asked, her tone light, conversational, as if discussing the weather. Daring him to continue.
The words faltered on his tongue.
She smiled, that same infuriating, knowing smile. She walked to the bed, the scent of her—clean skin and something darker, muskier—washing over him. She leaned down, her breasts swaying heavily in the shallow sweater, and kissed his forehead. Her nipples scraped against the blanket covering his chest.
“Have a good day,” she whispered. Then she was gone. He heard the quick click of her heels on the stairs, the jingle of keys, the solid thunk of the front door closing.
The house sighed into emptiness. Andrew threw back the sheets. The cool air did nothing to soften his aching cock. He padded, naked, to the window that overlooked the driveway. Her car—the sensible sedan they’d bought together—pulled away smoothly.
He imagined her in the halls of her fancy office. That sweater. That skirt. He imagined the flickering glances of coworkers, the covert stares. He saw her in the gleaming elevator, leaning against the mirrored wall, knowing her reflection was being devoured by the men in suits around her. He saw her bending over a conference table, that skirt riding up again, offering the proof of her audacity to some client named Marcus or David.
A jagged bolt of pure, unadulterated jealousy shot through him. It was hot and sour. He wanted to throw on clothes, run after her, drag her back home, and lock the door. He wanted to cover her up, to smother this new, terrifying flame.
His hand drifted to his cock, hard and leaking against his stomach. The jealousy melted, mutated, fused with a blinding, shameful arousal. He didn’t cover her up in his mind. He undressed her.
He saw her in an office, the door locked, that cashmere sweater pushed up to her neck, her huge, fake, perfect tits on fully display. He saw her on her knees, her lips stretched around a thick, anonymous cock, her eyes looking up, not at the man, but at a camera phone she held in her own hand. Pointed at her own face. He pictured the arrival of the photo on his phone, the brittle of the alert, the Pavlovian response of his cock.
The fantasy escalated, building on the ruins of the Dubai photos. He saw her bent over a sleek desk, hands splayed on glass, that skirt around her waist. Someone was behind her, driving into her, the sound wet and loud. But she was turned, looking over her shoulder, not at the man fucking her, but at her own reflection in the dark computer monitor, her expression a mix of fevered arousal and knowing amusement. In his mind, she got off on the whole scene - her control of the client, of Andrew, of her own pleasure in sex and dominance.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his fist tightening around his shaft.
He stumbled back to the bed, falling onto the mussed sheets that still smelled of her and their silent night. He didn’t fight it. He let the vile, intoxicating movie play.
In his mind, she was talking now. Her voice was in his ear, a dirty whisper. You like this, don’t you, Andrew?You like picturing your wife as a whore. You like knowing she’s out there, right now, with her cunt exposed under her skirt, waiting for someone to notice. Waiting for someone to use it. He pumped his cock, hard and fast. The pre-come slicked his path.
She’s probably in the bathroom already, the voice in his head, her voice, continued. Stalled in a stall. Her fingers are in her pussy, Andrew. She’s thinking about Dubai, preparing for her conquest of the next client. She’s thinking about how full she felt, her mouth and pussy stuffed at once. She’s fucking her own fist, wishing it was thicker, wishing it was someone else’s. He groaned, his hips bucking off the bed.
Maybe she won’t wait. Maybe she’ll go to the IT department. That young guy, the one with the tattoos on his forearms. She’ll ask him to look at her laptop. She’ll lean right over him, and he’ll see. He’ll be hard in his jeans. And she’ll smile and say, ‘It gets so hot in here, don’t you think?’
Andrew’s rhythm became frantic, punishing. The bedframe knocked against the wall. She’ll take him to the supply closet. It’ll be you she’s thinking of. You. She’ll unzip his jeans and his cock will spring out, and it’ll be bigger than yours, Andrew. Thicker. And she’ll gasp when she takes it, not because she loves it, but because she can’t wait to tell you about it. She can’t wait to see your face when she shows you the photo of it buried in her throat. That was it. The image—the specific, degrading detail—pushed him over the edge. With a choked, ragged cry, he came, stripes of white spattering across his stomach and the sheets. His body convulsed, pleasure wracking him, fused inextricably with self-loathing. He lay there, panting, spent, staring at the ceiling. The quiet of the house was no longer empty. It was suffocating. It was full of the phantom echoes of his own corruption. The digital ghost of Ellie in Dubai, the very real, palpable absence of her beside him, and the visceral, sticky evidence of his complicity, cooling on his skin.
The smell of his own come hung in the air, sour and cheap.He didn’t move to clean it. He stared at the ceiling, tracing a hairline crack in the plaster, until the buzzing of his phone on the nightstand shattered the silence.Her name glowed on the screen. He stared at it, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. He let it ring three times, his mind churning with the phantom images of her in the office, before swiping to answer.
“Hey.” His voice was rough.“Miss me already?” Her tone was liquid, amused. In the background, he could hear the faint, metallic echo of a large space, the murmur of distant voices. She was somewhere public.“Where are you?” he asked.
“Just stepped out for a coffee.” A lie, or a half-truth.The acoustics didn’t match a cozy café. “I was thinking about you.About this morning.”
Andrew closed his eyes.“Yeah?”
“Mmm. I could feel you watching me.Your eyes were all over me, Andrew. Like you wanted to devour me right there.” She let out a soft sigh, a calculated sound. “It made me wet. Thinking about you, hard in our bed, getting off to the idea of me bending over.”
He swallowed, his throat dry.“Ellie…”
“Shhh.I am. I’m still wet.This skirt is a problem. Every time I shift in my chair, I can feel the air right on my cunt. It’s so exposed.” She dropped her voice to a whisper, the phone close to her mouth now.“I keep having to cross and uncross my legs. I think the guy across from me knows. He’s looked at my thighs three times this hour.”
A bolt of something jagged—possessiveness, fury, raw lust—shot through Andrew’s groin.His spent cock gave a painful, interested twitch. “Stop it,” he murmured, the command utterly hollow.“Or what?” she teased. “You’ll come down here and make me behave?You’d have to put me over your knee first. And we both know how that ends.” She was referencing the closet, the first fracture. “I have a one o’clock.A new client.Roland. He has… very strong hands.”
“Don’t,” Andrew said, the word strangled.
“Don’t what?” The innocence in her voice was poison. “Don’t imagine his big, strong hands on my hips while I’m presenting? Don’t think about him ‘accidentally’ brushing against my ass when I walk him to the door? Don’t wonder if his office door locks?” She paused, letting the images fester.“I’m going to be so slick for him, Andrew.Just from the thinking. My pussy will be soaked through. He’ll probably smell it.”
“Fuck, Ellie.” His hand was around his cock again, squeezing, the flesh reluctantly responding. He was half-hard already, shame fueling the fire.
“That’s it,” she purred, hearing the change in his breathing.“Are you touching yourself again?After your little morning jerk-off? You’re so greedy for it now.” A door clicked shut in the background on her end. The public murmuring ceased, replaced by a hollow, tiled silence.A bathroom stall. “I’m in a stall.I’ve got my hand under my skirt.My fingers are sliding right in. God, I’m so fucking wet for you.For him. For all of it.”
He could hear it, the faint, unmistakable sound of slickness, of her fingers working her own flesh. His hips jerked involuntarily.
“I’m imagining it’s his fingers,” she breathed, her voice tightening.“Not yours.His are thicker. He’d be rougher. He’d fuck me with them like he was angry at me, just pumping them in and out right here in this stall. He’d make me come, and then he’d make me suck his dick clean.”
Andrew was fully hard again, achingly so, pumping his fist in a frantic, punishing rhythm. The jealousy was a white-hot coil in his gut, but it only fed the need.“He’d pull my hair.He’d call me a filthy bitch. And I’d take it.I’d love it. I’d come again on his cock when he finally shoved it in my mouth.” Her breathing hitched, grew jagged. The wet sounds from her end of the phone became more pronounced, a messy, obscene counterpoint to her whispers. “And you know what I’d do after?I’d text you. I’d send you a picture of my face, all messy with his come, and I’d say ‘Thinking of you.’ And you’d get hard all over again.”
A low, guttural cry escaped her, stifled but clear. She was coming, her fantasy giving her a real, shuddering climax right there in a public bathroom, hundreds of miles from the man she was torturing with it. The sound of it, raw and private and shared so violently, pushed Andrew over the edge. He came with a harsh groan, his second orgasm a weaker, sharper thing, devoid of pleasure, full of desperate, corrosive need.
The line was silent for a long moment, save for her slowing breaths. “One o’clock,” she finally said, her voice smooth again, composed, as if discussing a meeting agenda.“Wish me luck.”
The call died. Andrew lay in the mess, the phone cold against his ear, more alone than he had ever been. The call had done nothing to assuage his worries. It had etched them into his bones, and set his nerves permanently alight.